


No Allegiance

by objectlesson



Category: The Lone Ranger (2013)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4521522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an obnoxious drunk and Tonto does something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

> One of the biggest bummers about punk rock is how unwilling punks and anarchists are to acknowledge how corporate and generally assimilationist the consumption of alcohol is. That somehow seemed like a relevant thing to these characters (who are kind of proto punks???) I also really wanted Tonto to tie John up, um. Yeah. 
> 
> The title is an Earth Crisis song, for laughs.

It’s very late, and John Reid is very drunk. As a result, he is also obnoxious bordering on insufferable, sloppy and loud and entirely too close to Tonto’s face as he recounts the afternoon’s successful saloon fight for the umpteenth time, breath hot and boozy and terrible across Tonto’s lips. Witnessed only by the moon and her skeptical gaze, Tonto keeps shoving him off less and less convincingly, but John keeps coming back. Impossible blue eyes blood-shot and half-lidded, pupils as black as a starless sky. It’s dizzying. 

Tonto deliberates between knocking him out with the half-empty bottle of liquor they’re sharing, and fisting deep into his shirt front, shoving him into the sand, and kissing him silent. Somehow, punching him seems like it might cause fewer problems in the morning. 

Tonto has never been very good at avoiding problems, though, so he’s leaning somewhat closer to the latter of the two options. After all, John _is_ very nearly meeting him halfway. He keeps pushing up into Tonto’s space as they sit beside the fire, accidentally kicking over the two empty cans of beans they finished hours ago as he leans too close, limbs clumsy and aimlessly gesticulating. He sways inches away from Tonto’s lips, hands all over his shoulders to steady himself, and Tonto just _isn’t_ the type to pull away from that, even if he knows it’s easier, safer, simpler that way. He stays silent and still, a steady as stone while John flits about him like a hummingbird. 

Maybe, if he stays here, he won’t have to hit him _or_ kiss him. John will pass out on his own accord, or close those final inches between them, slide his lips so flushed and swollen right against Tonto’s throat, finally _do_ something about the agonizing tension they’ve been dancing wordlessly around for months. Tonto can’t be the only one who notices it. He can’t be the only one who is perpetually distracted by it, whose vision clouds over in scarlet whenever John is in danger, whose hands are always clenching and unclenching around the desire to choke him, snap his neck, pull him closer, throw him up against the crumbling red rock face and kiss him until he can’t breathe. He can’t be the only one; there has to be a reason why John is such a fool, such a mess. Otherwise Tonto might need to rethink why he is so very taken with him. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” John slurs, and his exhalation tastes like a distillery. Tonto licks his lips, and says nothing. “I mean, even for you,” John presses on, squeezing Tonto’s bare shoulders with a hand too rough and too warm, palming down to his forearm until his thumb snags to a stop in the ditch of his elbow, sticky with sweat. “It’s like you’re mad at me.” 

Tonto cuts his eyes to John’s, stunned to see that he is actually pouting, pink lower lip pushed out like a kid whose just dropped his lollipop in the sand. Tonto tries to pry his arm from John’s grip, thinking about how terrifically annoying he is when he’s drunk, and grinds out, “not mad.” 

“What then?” he asks, his breath coming out in a messy _oomph_ as Tonto frees himself and sends John sprawling backwards onto the sand. “You look like you could kill a man.” 

“Have killed many men before,” Tonto offers. He lets his gaze climb all over John as he struggles helplessly to sit up, long legs in his stupid black law-man’s slacks splayed lewdly, hair rucked up in ten different directions in the back, sweat beaded on his brow. His mask is hanging from his neck and Tonto wants to grab it, make a fist around the loosened knot and pull John up by it. He imagines the mark the soft leather would leave around his throat, a ribbon of red, and then thinks about tracing it with his tongue. 

“Well,” John says, giving up and just staying there, propped up on his elbows with his knees spread, “you look like you could kill _me_. What did I even _do_?” 

“Drink makes smart men dumb,” Tonto says after awhile, kicking at the bottom of John’s scuffed boot with his bare heel. “And you’re not smart man.” 

John reaches for the closest object, which happens to be a fork with its prongs crusted in beans and sand, and attempts to throw it at Tonto. His aim and force are warped drastically by drink, however, and they both watch the fork sail spectacularly into the fire. “Shit,” John mumbles, throwing his head back and exposing the ripple of his throat to the firelight, like a skyline cast in sunset. “That was our last fork.” 

“Hm,” Tonto says and raises his eyebrows. They still have at lease three forks in their saddlebag, and he is uncertain as to why John’s acting as if this fork is somehow permanently lost, like they cannot simply fish it out of the ashes in the morning. 

He thinks it might be time to wrestle the bottle away from John and steer him to bed when John blurts “So why do you want to kill me? Huh? Is it something I said? Was it that uppercut I missed in the fight?” 

Tonto shakes his head. “ Too drunk.” 

“ _Me_?” John crows, throwing his arms up, eyes wide in disbelief. He looks ridiculous, shirt buttoned wrong, blood on his sleeve, hair wild. He looks far more like a criminal than a law-man, and it almost makes Tonto smile. “ _I’m_ the civilized one here,” John slurs, pointing an accusatory finger in Tonto’s general direction. “ _You’re_ the savage, _buddy._ I’m just having a few celebratory drinks after a job well done and that makes me a _drunk_? They called me a prude in college, and now, and now...” he trails off, spilling onto his back bonelessly. “I’m really offended.” 

“Really drunk,” Tonto says, rising to his hands and knees and crawling over to John. “Buddy.” He snatches the bottle from the saddle-blanket its sitting atop, the one John somehow managed to miss as he reclined, meaning his head is instead lolling around messily in the sand. He is filthy and flushed, bits of the desert clinging to the perspiration on his face and it might not be the best idea, but Tonto reaches to brush it away with his palm. 

John grabs his wrist, encircles it in a sweaty, loose grip and says, “I’m not _that_ drunk.” 

Tonto stops, lets his thumb rest at the corner of John’s parted lips, seeing what John might do as he lies there, panting, holding Tonto’s hand in place like he might shift, might let him push into the slick heat of his mouth with a calloused finger. Tonto stares down at him hard, gaze fixed on the hazy blue of his eyes and John squirms, looks away, releases his wrist like it’s all too much. It _is_ too much, Tonto is well aware. He sits back on his haunches, studying John, thinking that he _is_ that drunk, drunk enough it would be easy to overpower him if they end up grappling over the bottle, but not so drunk he would stop himself from licking into his mouth if they end up doing _that_ instead. 

“Not just drunk,” he says eventually. “Also hypocrite.” 

“A hypocrite too? _How?_ ” John barks, narrowing his eyes, shifting clumsily onto the saddle pad and littering it with sand 

“Drink. Lone Ranger is outside law, outside government, outside banks. But, he still uses pocket money to pay for drink.” 

John scoffs. “But booze _isn’t_ the law, it isn’t the government.” 

“But it isn’t _outside_ law. Is shipped on railroad,” Tonto offers, shrugging. He doesn’t _actually_ care what systems he and John inevitably support; it’s impossible to truly fight injustice without using the structures which uphold it, promote it. He’s only trying to get under John’s skin, as he always does. He’s only trying to push him far enough something breaks, here, now, while he’s inebriated and his inhibitions are compromised. It’s when the truth comes out. 

John snorts, trying and failing to swipe the bottle away from Tonto. “Okay Mr. Perfect why don’t _you_ be the Lone Ranger then if you’re so _perfect_ or whatever,” he snaps. 

“Thank you,” Tonto says, nodding towards him, taking the compliment. 

“I didn’t actually mean you were perfect,” John snaps. “You’re actually really annoying and not fun to drink with at all. Aren’t Indians supposed to be crazy when they drink? Or does it not work on you because you’re bad-crazy all the time?” 

Tonto shrugs. “Works on you. Also bad-crazy.” 

John tries to kick Tonto from where he’s lying down, but he’s entirely too obvious and Tonto catches his leg mid-swing, grabs his knee and pins it easily to the earth. John tries to grab the bottle again and Tonto tosses it a few feet away, watches it roll into the darkness and finally, _finally_ something breaks. “You self-righteous bastard,” John growls, reaching up a grabbing a fistful of Tonto’s hair, pulling him down over his own prone body and somehow, they’re half-fighting, pawing at each other, rolling in the sand. 

Tonto is delighted. John’s wrestling is weak and uncoordinated and he can predict his every move, slapping his punches away easily and straddling his midsection to keep him pinned pathetically to the saddle blanket, the centerpiece moth of a cork board insect collection, so lovely. He struggles, bucking against Tonto, cock twitching in his terra-cotta dusted slacks yes, absolutely, he _cannot_ be the only one aware of the tension. 

“I’m not a _child_ ,” He whines very much like one, still scrabbling with determination for the bottle, which is a good six feet away, at least. He seems kind of panicked, like he’s trying to get away from Tonto under the guise of reclaiming his liquor, but very well might be just trying to hide the fact that his cock is swelling to half-mast beneath the heat and pressure of Tonto’s lap. “You can’t _cut me off_ because of your dumb morality,” he wheezes. 

“No,” Tonto agrees, crossing his arms and just sitting on John, regarding him very seriously with a a gaze like flint. John stops struggling for a moment, looking absurd with his deep flush, the tendons on his throat flexing beneath a sheen of sweat, expression kind of blown open, kind of terrified. He looks like he’s just realized the predicament they’re in, like he’s just figured out he can’t get up and he’s under Tonto, their hips locked up and his half-hard dick trapped between their bodies. 

He clears his throat, and tries to sound firm. “Get off,” he attempts, voice shaking. 

“No,” Tonto says again, planting a hand on either side of John’s body and leaning over him, shifting against him, into him, showing him that he, too, is similarly afflicted. John is dumb and blinking, a ring of glassy blue surrounding the deep, terrified black of his pupil. 

“Um,” he says, throat clicking as he swallows. 

“Won’t ride with hypocrite,” Tonto says, voice low and soft and serious as he bears down upon John, stares at his lips and his tongue flicking out and over them again and again to wet the perfect pink cupid’s bow, so infuriating, so bitable, so bustable. 

“Ok,” John says stupidly, his hips working beyond his control, tiny, rolling thrusts against him. Then, as if he just remembered he had arms and could theoretically use them to push Tonto off, he reaches for him desperately, attempting to shove his shoulders but instead just carding down his chest, clumsy fingers down filthy skin, brushing against dried rivulets of sweat, sticky with grit. “What do you want?” he mumbles, voice hoarse and broken. 

Tonto is quickly upon him, grabbing and pinning both his wrists above his head, dropping his lips a hair’s width away from John’s and murmuring “truth,” into the corner of his parted mouth. John breaks, groans out a long, low sound and turns his head to catch Tonto’s lips in his teeth, bite at him messily before they’re kissing, wet and rough and open, necks strained and breath a ruin around them. 

John tastes like cheap whiskey and sour spit and Tonto’s vision whites out with the fierce, searing humanity of it, all of John’s flaws and stupidity and hypocrisy right there, in his spit. He licks wild and hungry into it, swallowing all the muffled sounds John makes into his mouth, fisting through his hair with his free hand, cuffing John’s throat and squeezing until his breath chokes out, ragged and raw. He wants to touch him with both palms, he wants to get up under his clothes but he knows if he lets go of his wrists John is going to try to take charge, try and roll Tonto onto his back and kiss him all sweet and sappy because that’s just what honorable folks like John Reid _do_ when they kiss fuck someone for the first time, even if they don’t technically _want_ it like that. 

Tonto is impatient. He wants John now, and he wants him how he’s _been_ wanting him, sweat-slicked and broken and begging and destroyed. There will be time for languid sex later, but not tonight, not the first time. He breaks their kiss, leaves John splayed and swollen-lipped and gasping for a moment while he rises his to his knees and looks for something to tie his hands up with. 

The knapsacks are on the other side of the fire, the lariat is too stiff, and all that leaves it Silver’s saddle, propped up on its pommel and horn a foot or so to their left. With deft fingers Tonto reaches for the leather girth, single-handedly yanking and untangling the cinch strap so that he has enough slack to tie. 

“What are you _doing?_ ” John complains, craning his neck and mouthing at the air, grinding steadily and very distractingly against Tonto. “Are you going to...?” 

“Yes,” Tonto assures him, wrapping the worn leather around John’s wrist three times before he knots it, tight enough he can’t struggle free. John pulls, met with resistance at the other end of the cinch, which is still attached to the saddle. Tonto sits back triumphantly, thrilled with the prospect of the great Lone Ranger tied to his own horses girth strap, laid out on a sandy blanket in the middle of the Texas desert. John looks a little scared, a little sobered up, and Tonto likes him that way. 

“Your brother’s shirt?” He asks, thumbing over the fine pearl buttons of his sweat-stained grey oxford. 

“What? No, Dan wouldn’t buy a shirt with pearl--”

“Good,” Tonto says sharply, cutting John off as he yanks the buttons open without undoing them, sending the glittering white disks into the night like fallen stars. John’s mouth hang open very prettily, his eyes wide and too blue as Tonto rucks the cotton open, dropping his mouth to the chiseled bones in John’s chest and mouthing over them, licking at the patina of sweat. “Hypocrite,” he tells him, eyes flicking up to regard John through a crescent of dark lashes. 

John has no reply, no defense for his pearl buttons now lost to the night. He’s too busy canting his hips up, arching his back and groaning beneath Tonto’s tongue and teeth. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses, yanking fruitlessly at his restraints. “You’re probably evil. Wanna touch you so bad though.”

“Later,” Tonto mumbles, sucking fierce, cruel marks up the shining line of John’s throat, licking into the hollow of his pulse, making bruises under his collarbones. He palms up his ribs, drags his nails back down so John cries out and bends his spine like a sickle moon so the coarse, golden dusting of hair above his navel catches gloriously in the fire light. Tonto shifts lower, dizzy with the salty dirty dusty smell os his skin, hot like the sun, like the core of the earth. 

“Tonto,” John breathes out, his thighs tensing on either side of Tonto’s shoulders, pressing into him. “I’ve never been this goddamn hard in my _life_.” 

In spite of himself, Tonto smiles agains the taut line of John’s oblique as he unbuckles his belt, pulling it from the loops with a snap and tossing it away to joint the discarded liquor bottle. He would never tell John this, but he is secretly glad he’s drunk, secretly glad his defenses are lowered enough he’s saying shit like that, spilling the truth. Tonto palms over John’s cock, which has apparently never been this hard in his _life_. He’s dry mouthed and shaky with the heat, the thick strain of it against John’s stupid slacks. 

He tugs them down just low enough to free his erection, and then in one fluid motion he takes the base in hand, and swallows the rest. 

“Jesus christ,” John groans out again, all beautiful and blasphemous and crucified under the stars, unable to reach for Tonto but wanting to so badly Tonto can hear the sounds of creaking leather as he pulls at the cinch. 

His cock is sweat-musky and sticky-hot, salt and sun and satin and steel under the lash of Tonto’s tongue and he nearly chokes on how good it is, how perfect and slick and solid he feels sliding between his lips. He palms over his thigh with one hand, up the tense and flickering ladder of his abdominals and he jacks him off with the other, sucking at the crown with a mouth full of spit. He can tell John is still holding back, keeping himself from really fucking his throat and it’s so infuriating, so ridiculous and he has to urge him, slide his palm down under his ass to drag him deeper, bring him closer. 

John steadily loses his mind, head thrown back and breath snagging out of him ragged and animal as he thrusts more and more loosely into Tonto’s mouth, finally snapping his hips to wild ruin as he comes. 

Tonto swallows, gasping, rubbing his lips into the coarse thatch of John’s pubic hair as he rides the tiny, dying tremors and aftershocks of his orgasm. “Fuck,” John says, still twitching. 

“Yes,” Tonto agrees, inhaling from his skin, acutely aware of his own cock, which also might be harder than it’s ever been in his life. 

“Are you gonna untie me now? Can’t do anything with my hands stuck in a cinch,” John says, pulling at the ties. 

Tonto rolls his eyes. He would be able to do very many things with his hands stuck in a cinch; he’s pretty certain there are few things which which would prevent him from sucking John Reid to finish, and having his hands tied is not among them. “No,” he says, rising to his knees and hooking his thumbs into his pants, which he struggles out of, watching John watch him as he does so, the suffocating heat burning in his eyes, the unguarded, palpable, drunk-raw want. He jerks his own cock a few times, eyes fixed on the flash of John’s tongue across his lips. 

Clambering up John’s exposed torso on his knees, he kneels over his face, makes a fist in his sweat-dark mess of hair and tilts him back, admiring the flush on his neck, the simple, easy way he lets Tonto push him wherever he wants him. “Not a smart man,” he observes, “but smart enough.” 

John is too distracted to argue, he’s making little pathetic whining noises and mouthing for Tonto’s cock, pulling against the grip he has in his hair. Satisfied he wants it bad enough he’s not gonna try and talk his way out of the restraints, Tonto lets him go, eyes sliding shut at the terrible bliss of John’s lips mouthing messing down the length of his cock. 

He gets on all fours, knees on either side of John’s neck as he holds himself up to thrust in earnest into the slick, perfect heat of him. He watches the string of drool drip down John’s chin, glittering in the firelight, he watches John groan and suck and lick and try his damndest to do what he would normally do if his hands weren’t tied to his horses saddle. It’s an admirable effort, but the struggle is what does Tonto in, the twisting and sputtering and desperate, graceless licks and groans. He holds himself up with one shaking arm and cups John’s face with the other, teeth grit in aching silence as he comes, painting John’s plush mouth in white. 

Tonto collapses, knee and thigh heavy across John’s chest, palm still resting on the stubble-rough plane of his cheek. He thumbs across his raw lips tenderly, thinking that maybe now there’s room for that since they’ve both come, emptied themselves out into the other and there is nothing else to break. 

“You taste so good,” is the first thing John says when he gets his breath back, voice coming out reedy and hoarse beneath the weight of Tonto’s leg. He licks his lips, licking Tonto’s thumb in the process. “Should be goddamned illegal.” 

“Already is,” Tonto reminds him, dragging his leg over John’s body so he can lie beside him, propped up on his elbow to look down upon the ruin of desert-gold and blood-flush below him, marked by his teeth, his nails. He sighs, very relieved. 

“Hey,” John says, voice even. He sounds very sober, like getting tied up and throat-fucked beat the liquor out of him. “Want you to know I really _wasn’t_ that drunk. I mean, I was drunk, sure, but I always play it up. A little.” 

“To get hands on me,” Tonto observes. 

John flushes but he doesn’t look away, instead allowing the corner of his ruined mouth to quirk up a bit at the corner. “Well. Yeah. Didn’t know I was so obvious.” 

Tonto shrugs. “Very obvious.” 

“So,” John muses, lifting his hands, which are looking somewhat swollen and red from being pinned above his head and knotted around the wrist in leather. “I can’t feel them anymore.” 

“Ah,” Tonto says, standing up and stretching, skin burning pleasantly under John’s unguarded gaze, which is climbing up the toned brown length of his legs as he walks around the nearly dead fire to tug a canteen out of their saddle bags. He takes a long, gratuitous drink from it in front of John, and tucks it away without offering him any. “Told you,” he says after a moment. “Don’t ride with hypocrites.” 

“But you fuck them?” John asks, raising an eyebrow. “Cut off their circulation?” 

Tonto nods. Then he adds, “Make deal with them.” 

Johns eyes get even wider and more blue, and Tonto finds himself stunned that it’s something that’s humanly possible. He swallows evenly. “What kind of deal?” 

Tonto returns to his side of the fire, digs his left foot into the sand and puts most of his weight on it, balancing so he can press the other one into John’s throat. He regards him there, helpless beneath the ball of his foot, adam’s apple bobbing under the splay of his toes. “ _What kind of deal?_ ” John asks, spitting sand, eyes flashing. “And you’re disgusting, by the way. And also mean.” 

“Only bootlegged drink. No more shipped by train,” Tonto says. 

“What?! Bootlegged liquor is _expensive_ , what’s next, organic only or--” John stutters to silence as Tonto cuts him off, shifting more of his weight onto the foot on his throat. 

“Outside law,” he explains. “Like Lone Ranger.” 

“Hmmph,” John snaps, coughing as Tonto lets him up. “Okay, whatever. _Deal_.” 

Tonto drops back to his knees, digging his fingers into the leather around John’s wrists and loosening the knot until he can struggle free, skin marked in bloodless indentations. He rubs at them for John, pleased as he winces, still mostly naked in the ruined tatters of his shirt, sweat cooling into a sticky sheen on his skin. Hands finally free, John reaches for Tonto, pulls him down by his neck and kisses him hard, tongue salty and bitter with come as it sweeps across Tonto’s teeth, flicks against the roof of his mouth. Tonto’s eyes flutter closed, and he wonders how long a man can kiss another before he has to eat or sleep or do anything else. It’s an experiment he would be willing to conduct. 

John palms all over him, mauls him rough and graceless like he’s been waiting forever to touch him, like he’s been parched. Tonto sighs into it, thinking he’s never been very good at avoiding problems, but this one turned out all right, in the end. 

\---


End file.
